Chapter 41 Sophie
Sophie
Vin savors each bite of gnocchi half-dressed in deep red bolognese, half in vibrant green pesto. It’s a visual representation of us, of two halves making one perfect whole. At least, that’s what I see. Vin just sees gnocchi.
When Vin takes a bite and makes that low, guttural groan that rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest, heat pools low in my belly.
“Sophie,” he breathes, reaching for another bite before he’s even finished swallowing.
I watch him for a moment, my hands resting on the edge of the table.
There’s something so intimate about feeding someone you care about, about putting hours of work into creating something that will bring them joy for only minutes.
The impermanence of it doesn’t make it less valuable; it makes it more precious.
Kind of like us: temporary but beautiful.
I sink to my knees and crawl under the table, settling between his spread thighs.
His fork pauses. “Sophie….”
“Keep eating, Vincenzo.” I place my hands on his knees, feel the muscle beneath the fabric of his pants.
For a moment, he just stares down at me, his throat working as he swallows. “Another point you’re trying to make, Sophia?”
I slide my hands up his thighs, feel them tense beneath my palms. “I want to make you feel as good as my food tastes. May I, padrone?”
The word padrone, or master, makes his pupils dilate. His breathing changes, becomes heavier. He spears another piece of gnocchi, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Si, regina,” he says roughly. “Take care of your padrone.”
My queen. Take care of your master. The endearments makes my heart flutter even as I reach for his belt.
I work slowly, deliberately. There’s no rush. This isn’t about getting him off quickly so we can move on to something else. This is about worship. About showing him through touch what I can’t say with words.
His belt slides free with a soft whisper of leather. The button of his pants opens easily. When I lower his zipper, he lifts his hips just enough for me to ease his pants and boxer briefs down his thighs.
His cock springs free, already half-hard and oh my gosh impressive, thick and long, the head flushed dark with arousal. My fingers don’t quite meet when I wrap my hand around the base and stroke upward slowly, watching his face.
He takes another bite of gnocchi, but his jaw is tight. His free hand grips the edge of the table.
“Eat, Vincenzo,” I remind him gently. “Enjoy your dinner.”
I lower my head and drag my tongue up the underside of his shaft, root to tip, tasting him. He groans, and I feel his thigh muscles tighten beneath my other hand.
“Fuck, Sophie—”
I love it when he says my name like that. I smile to myself then wrap my lips around just the head, sucking gently while my hand continues those slow, languid strokes.
Above me, I hear the clink of fork against plate. He’s trying to eat like I asked. The thought makes me smile around his cock.
I take him deeper, inch by inch, relaxing my throat and breathing through my nose. When he hits the back of my throat, I swallow around him and he curses, a string of Italian that sounds like a prayer of profanity.
His hand drops to my hair, not pushing, not pulling. Just holding.
I establish a rhythm: slow withdrawal until just the tip remains between my lips, then a languid slide back down. My hand follows my mouth, squeezing gently, adding pressure where my lips can’t reach. With my other hand, I cup his balls, rolling them carefully, feeling them draw up tight.
“Sophie.” My name is a ragged exhale. “Baby, that feels—Fuck, your mouth—”
I hum around him in acknowledgment and the vibration makes him jolt. “Don’t fucking stop. Give me more.” He grips my hair tight.
I give him more.
I take him deeper, until my nose presses against the dark hair at his base, until tears prick my eyes and my throat convulses around his thick cock.
I hold there for a moment, until I need breath, then withdraw so so so slowly, my tongue pressing flat against the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulses there.
“Jesus Christ, Sophie—”
When I reach the tip, I swirl my tongue around the head, dipping into the slit to taste the salt gathered there. Then I release him with a soft pop and lower myself to his balls.
I lick them, shower them with attention, take first one then the other gently into my mouth while my hand continues stroking his shaft. Long, slow pulls from root to tip. I can feel him thickening further, getting impossibly harder.
“Are you eating, Vincenzo?” I ask against his skin, my breath ghosting over wet flesh.
“Trying,” he grits out. “Hard to focus when you’re—fuck—when you’re doing that.”
I smile and return to his cock, taking him deep again. This time I don’t stop. I set a rhythm: not fast, but steady and relentless deep strokes that have him hitting the back of my throat each time. My hand works in tandem with my mouth, twisting slightly on the upstroke, squeezing on the down.
Above me, he’s abandoned any pretense of eating. Both his hands are in my hair now, gentle but firm, holding me steady as his hips begin to move. Small thrusts that match my rhythm. I relax completely, let him take what he needs, my hands braced on his thighs.
“Sophie, baby, I’m going to—” His voice breaks. “If you don’t want me to come in your mouth—”
I double down, taking him as deep as I can and swallowing, my throat working around him.
“Sophie!”
He breaks hard, his whole body going rigid. His cock pulses on my tongue, thick ropes of cum flooding my mouth. I swallow it all, wanting every drop, working him through it with gentle suction and soft strokes until he’s gasping and gripping the table above me.
When the aftershocks finally subside, I clean him with long, loving licks that make him shudder and curse. When I’m done, I rest my cheek against his thigh, his softening cock still resting in my mouth, and close my eyes.
His fingers stroke through my hair, tender and reverent.
“Fuck, you’re fucking amazing. Having you as my wife would be fucking—”
He stops himself and my heart stops along with him, then starts again at triple speed.
I open my eyes and tilt my head to look up at him. He’s staring down at me, his expression stunned, like he can’t quite believe what just came out of his own mouth.
“Vin—”
“Don’t.” His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my swollen bottom lip as his jaw tightens. “Don’t say anything. Just stay there. Keep it in your mouth. Let me finish my dinner.”
I obey, turning my face to press a kiss into his palm, then gently take his soft cock back in my mouth and hold it there, warming it.
His exhale is relieved.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. “My perfect girl.”
I hum softly in agreement, and he shudders.
“So beautiful on your knees for me, that sweet mouth full of my cock. Do you know what you do to me, regina?”
I can’t answer with my mouth full, but I gaze up at him, letting all the devotion, the absolute surrender I feel show in my eyes. He reads it there and he swallows hard.
“You’re mine,” he says roughly, pulling on my hair enough to move my head back so I can see him better. “You understand that? Mine, Sophia. I own this mouth, those big fucking beautiful eyes, that wet pussy, and your fat ass. All of it.”
Warmth floods through me, sweet and devastating. He doesn’t say I love you. He might never say those words. But this is so much better.
For now, kneeling between his thighs with his cock resting soft and warm in my mouth while he finishes the dinner I made with love, it’s enough. It’s more than enough. It’s everything.
“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs between bites. “You make me so happy, baby. Do you know that? You make your padrone so fucking happy.”
A tear slips down my cheek, an overflow of all the feelings.
His thumb catches it, wipes it away. “Hey, no crying, bella. I’ve got you.”
He cups my face with both hands, tilting my head back so I’m looking directly up at him. His cock slips from my mouth.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says quietly. “I don’t know how to be what you deserve. But I know I want you. All of this. The idea of not coming home to you, to your food, to your smile, to your perfect fucking mouth—fuck.”
He leans down and kisses me. It’s deep and slow and devastating. When he pulls back, his eyes are fierce.
“I want to try to figure this out with you, if you’ll be patient with me. Because you’re mine, Sophie Bellamorte, and I take care of what’s mine.”
“Vin—”
“Back in your mouth, baby. Let me finish my dinner.” He’s smiling when he says it, that rare, genuine smile that transforms his whole face.
I take him back into my mouth, settling in with my head on his thigh, and close my eyes. His fingers thread through my hair in a soothing rhythm, a background to the soft sounds of him eating, quiet hums of satisfaction, and the occasional endearment.
This is exactly what I always wanted, what I dreamed of during all those lonely nights.
Not just the sex, though God knows that’s incredible. Not just the submission, though surrendering to him feels like coming home.
This. The quiet intimacy. The trust. The feeling of being cherished while I cherish him in return.
He says I belong to him, and despite knowing who he is and what he does, and all the reasons this should terrify me, I believe him.
I believe in us.